(Written March 9, 2013)
It's twenty minutes after ten at night, and the mission is
silent save for the chirping of frogs and insects, the occasional barking
dog. The village generator has just cut
off. It's located scant yards from our
house, and its loud, mechanical sound becomes white noise soon after it begins
running at dusk. Because of the noise,
you watch TV a little louder than you would otherwise, but you're not really
aware of it until it's gone.
Actually, that's wrong.
There are some drunk men walking by my house, so it's not silent
anymore. But they're not particularly
rambunctious ones this time. I recognize the voice of a young man they call
Dummy, who is deaf and almost mute. He
communicates primarily through an invented sign language that his friends seem
to understand with little trouble. I'm
always impressed at how socially at ease he is despite his disability, and,
despite his politically incorrect call name, how accepting the community is of
him.
I climb into bed with my flashlight and tuck in my mosquito
net, something I've done hundreds of times over the past few years. It's something I'll only do a few dozen more
before I leave Guyana.
No more generator, no more mosquito nets, no more sitting in
the dark after the current cuts out. No
more running with bare feet down a sandy road.
No more greeting everyone I pass with a “Good morning,” “Good
afternoon,” or “Good night.” No more
phlourie, roti or cook-up rice. No more
outhouses, no more bucket baths. No more walks thorough the scheme with
students shouting a chorus of “Miss Kelly!” “Miss Kelly!” out of the windows of
brightly coloured houses. (Oh, that
reminds me, no more British spellings, either.)
I may be going home to warm running water and pizza, to a
place where people respect my privacy, to schools with enough desks and books
and teachers for all of their students, to the land of microwaves and
electricity 24/7 and flushing toilets, and my family, and my friends...but more
present in my mind at the moment are the people and things I'll leave
behind. I've built a life here. Two years is an awfully long time to spend in
one place, especially a place with people as warm and accepting as Guyana. When people here ask me if I'll miss mission,
I tell them of course I will—it's become my second home. This has become a line for me, but it's true
all the same.
My two years in Guyana have been the most emotionally
tumultuous of my life, without a doubt.
I can't honestly say whether there's been more tears or laughter, but I
can say there's been a lot of both. And,
fortunately, as the end draws near, I find it easier to appreciate the little
joys of life in Guyana. I find it easier
to let things go, to forgive people for not living up to my expectations, to
forgive myself for not living up to my expectations and to try just living,
instead.
So I will relish in Sharlene's infectious laughter, in the
smile of baby Arielle, whose mother wasn't even pregnant yet when I came here
but is now growing teeth, as she grips my finger with her tiny hand. I will be
grateful that I can share my love of running with the myriad teenagers that
join me now and again. I will admire
Benji's determination and Lorena's fierce dedication to her kids and her
future. I will relax into the easy comfort of gaffing and laughing with
Shabana. I will marvel at Wendy's gifts of empathy, and at my unbelievable luck
for choosing her house to live in back when I barely even knew her. I will visit those people in my community
whose company makes my days brighter, and I will cherish the fact that I've
been fortunate enough to live in a place where it's difficult to stay
lonely—just go for a walk and see who says hello.
For this last week of school, I will not stress and I will
not raise my voice. I will read stories,
sing songs, give and receive hugs, and do as much as I can to show these kids
that I think they're awesome. I will give the teachers of St. Cuthbert's
Primary School the credit they deserve for working pretty damn hard for those
awesome kids, all things considered, because the system doesn't make that
easy.
I will swim in the blackwater as often as I can.
I will go for walks and breathe in the beauty of this still largely
unspoiled place. I will accept
everything that is offered to me gracefully and gratefully. And yes, I will count the days left until I
fly back to New York, but not out of simple anticipation. I will do this to remind myself to soak up
the last sweet drops of this experience while I still can.
